attic teeth
by question the corpus
Summary: Miss Janssens' new lodger would have all the neighbours talking. [EngBel-centric vampire!AU; background SpaMano.] [Ongoing.]
1. one

**Attic Teeth**

* * *

Her feet feel nothing while she walks – but that's because it's cold. Cold winter, cold night, and it's currently later than it is when she usually gets out of work.

Of course, it doesn't help that Emma might as well be barefoot, because a heel snapped earlier and she's walking home in stockings. She holds her shoes with one hand, clasps her binder to her chest with the other, eyes wide and darting in the relative darkness. The only thing that could possibly make her _more_ horror-film unsettled would be a flickering street-lamp or two, but thankfully, no street-lamps are flickering – a few just aren't working to begin with.

It really is _very_ dark.

Emma is so cold, and hungry – a dangerous combination in any woman, but for _her_, it's nearly the herald of a full-blown breakdown. It's not often she wants to cry but now, what she really, really longs to do, is to curl up with her cat and snivel. Between inter-colleague arguments and someone eating her slice of cheesecake and _Antonio_, the day wasn't a catastrophic one... but it was certainly _bad_.

She doesn't usually walk home, especially on Friday nights, but there's not much to be done about missing the last bus. That was the anticipated cherry on the foul-tasting sundae of her Friday, so she's wondering whether the _person following her _serves as an early appetiser for Monday morning.

It's the footsteps that give it away.

Not that she dares look over her shoulder to _see_ them, not yet. This is a horror film staple arguably worse than dodgy lights because this one is tangible – a quiet suburban street, conveniently occupied in the smother of darkness by a fed-up woman and someone getting closer, closer, _dangerously_ closer. One more corner and she'll be able to see her house, but it's possible that finding Emma's house is exactly what her little impromptu companion wants to do.

Rightfully, she'd be frozen with terror... if she wasn't _damn_ chilled already. A scenario like this has always been her worst nightmare, something she's done her best to avoid – so it _bothers_ her, really, that her best wasn't good enough, that the universe has made it her chew-toy. Who does this person think they are, terrifying an innocent single woman like this? What gives them the right to creep up on her?

Instead of running for her life, she finds herself doing the one thing she'd never thought appropriate for a scenario like this: she stops walking.

Her split-second decision takes precisely that long, mostly because she hasn't thought it through. She drops her shoes and seizes her binder, taking a blind leap of faith in the hopes her mystery stalker is _just_ close enough behind her – then swivels on her heel, in one swift movement. The binder collides with the _creep_ hard enough to make his face delightfully crunch, and Emma emits a fallout gasp when the impact sends her staggering back a few steps.

Mr. Stalker staggers too, but while Emma stays standing, he ends up on the pavement. He's _whining_ like a dog, limbs writhing and hands clawing, the creases of his long coat lit half by moonlight and half by lamp. It takes Emma a few moments to realise that, despite how much more powerful her strike was than expected, he hasn't crumpled to the ground because she put him there – he's there because he's in pain.

Emma pants, heavily, surveying the damage. For whatever reason, Mr. Stalker is simply groaning on the ground with a hand clasped to his cheek... and she thinks, with a suddenly sinking stomach, that he might not have been planning anything malicious. He might just have been walking home himself, or about to ask her for – for directions, for the time, for something that wouldn't involve her shedding more than her shoes.

"I'm," she begins, though she loses her breath again when she sees he isn't clawing in pain; he's looking for something, dragging his fingertips unceremoniously across the sidewalk. His clothing is a mass of shapeless black, which makes his pale skin all the more striking, a mop of vibrant blond hair tousling alongside every jerk of his head.

She helps him; it's only fair, sinking to her knees and patting around for whatever he lost. When her hand _does_ find something, an anomaly atop mere bumpy pavement texture, it's small enough to fit between thumb and forefinger – her face exhibits a different kind of horror when she lifts it to the moonlight.

Oh heavens, she knocked out his _tooth_!

"Mister," Emma says, the urgency in her voice forcing him to glance up at her. "Mister, I'm – I'm sorry, so sorry—"

She turns the tooth in question between her fingers, swallowing down her apologies; this man has the most _arresting_ gaze, his eyes a green that seem to be their own source of light. He's... handsome, too, objectively speaking, a regal nose and high cheekbones... which would make it all the more upsetting if he _was_ a creep, but he's doing nothing more than observing her.

Telling herself to break from his gaze, she turns her attention to the forcibly-removed tooth. This is the first time she's ever knocked out someone's _dentition_, because it's one of the very few occasions she's ever struck somebody, but if teeth were trophies then this would be a good one. Sharp, strangely long. White, flawlessly unsettled almost from the root.

As she makes her investigation, the man's expression shifts into something more discernible. The tip of his tongue darts across his bottom lip, eyes that had been so welcoming now widening with surprise, or anxiety. Emma's own widen in return, only because it feels like something is _happening_ – something that shouldn't be happening, not on a real street in the real world, not to a schoolteacher who's already broken a heel and had a bad day.

Suited in black. Ridiculous cape. Ridiculous teeth. Glowing eyes. _Far_ too good-looking to be a man who simply happened to be going Emma's way... so there's only one possible conclusion to draw from tonight's events.

"You're a vampire," Emma says, to the man who is quite clearly a member of the living dead.

"Yes," says the vampire, and he sounds bemused that she's even bothering to ask.

Emma feels her face twist through various emotions in a performance she'd otherwise call Oscar-worthy, her grasp on the tooth only tightening now she knows what he'd intended to use it for. She'd be pale, if she hadn't been pale already, her staccato pants turning to fog in the cold night air.

"You were going to eat me!"

"I wasn't going to _eat_ you." He has the nerve to sound offended. "I was just going to... taste you. I'm a gentleman; I would not have hurt you."

He looks forlornly at the tooth she's still holding, like there's a very good reason why he's talking in past tense. Emma feels dizzy, clasping his fang into the palm of her hand, dainty fingers engulfing it one by one.

"Vampire!"

"Yes. I thought we'd established this." He lowers the hand he'd been resting on his cheek, rubbing his shoulder awkwardly instead. He resembles the children she teaches, comforting himself with little circular gestures. "If I could have my tooth back, madam..."

"Ha!" Emma cries, and she swiftly leaps up from the ground. Mr. Stalker Vampire regards her with an unimpressed expression, but it isn't exactly his place to be nonchalant. "Do you really think I'd give you it back now I know what you want to _do_ with it? I thought you were planning something bad... but this is worse than I'd expected!"

"I am not a dentist, madam. I can't reattach it on the spot – I merely dislike the notion of a failed dinner keeping my tooth like a memento." He sniffs. "It's rather embarrassing."

The vampire sounds English, archaic, and surprisingly polite. All rules of fiction dictate she should swoon and offer her pretty white neck to him – all rules of Emma say nothing of the sort.

"I think I _will_ keep it." She huffs, slipping it into her coat pocket. "As you said, you won't be needing it!"

With only the faintest display of a shrug, the vampire begins moving again. Emma tenses, her bag at the ready lest he try anything unpleasant – but he only picks up her discarded shoes, rising to his feet.

"I'll carry these for you," he says. Yes, he _says_, toneless and calm like what she _really_ wants from a disgusting bloodsucking creature that was about to _feed_ on her is a light spot of complimentary labour.

"You'll carry nothing!" she insists... though she takes a step back from him. He is taller than her, his frame wider and, now she won't be able to take him off-guard like before, she suspects he'd be able to overpower her, if he tried it. "Put down my shoes – give me back my shoes!"

The vampire pauses. He stares at her (_oh_, those eyes alone are gorgeous enough to kill), and for a moment there's no trace of emotion about his manner before he simply _sighs_, shoulders dropping while his face falls with them.

"I cannot leave you, madam," he says, this time with the _commanding_ sweep of masterful brooding. "You quelled me in my attempt to feed – and, until I heal enough to depart from your side, I belong entirely to you." She's so stunned by his words that she doesn't even protest when he takes her hand to kiss it, bowing to her with grace. "Madam, I will be – _must_ be – your loyal and learned servant."

Emma has, surprisingly, never had a servant before. But loyalty isn't something vampires are generally known for, which leads her to question with narrowed eyes: "Is that true?"

She nearly jumps when the vampire grins, his aristocratic indifference replaced by a crooked, boyish smirk. "Not really, but it was worth a shot. I'm a bit, er, down on my luck, you could say, and I don't really have anywhere to go – now, I can't even _feed_ myself. It won't take long for another to grow in, and I can't do much with just one... but I'll be good, if you give me somewhere 'til then to shelter. Very good. I am a _very good boy_."

He's teasing her. She only grimaces.

"Does the very good boy have a name?"

"Arthur." And Arthur pats his chest, his grin softening to the _smuggest_ smile Emma's ever seen. "You _did_ put me in this position, you know, and if you'd just let me go about my business we'd be getting on with our respective lives as we speak."

"You're not _alive_."

Arthur flinches. "Well. Perhaps not. I still have _feelings_."

Emma can hardly believe she's having this conversation, but the worst part is, she's considering it. A vampire with feelings is not a novel creation, but one incapacitated by soft, gentle Miss Janssens certainly is. If only her students could see her now.

"How," she begins, reminding herself to rationalise, "do I know you won't just... just _eat_ me as I sleep?"

Arthur quirks his lip, tapping his remaining fang when it slips forth. "With just the one at my disposal? No, no; that would inconvenience me more than it would inconvenience you, madam. It's best for both of us if I simply... sleep this off." He perks up, an idea striking him. "I'm very good at _gardening_, if you have a garden. I'd do that for you during the night."

"No, thank you. I can look after my garden just fine."

"I am not above begging." Arthur says it so _casually_, free hand falling to rest somewhere behind his back. "I'll beg you, if that's what you want. I'll fling myself at your feet and declare you to be my goddess, my only hope – which isn't strictly the case, but I'm not very... popular, around these parts."

"I wonder why."

"Certain individuals would have no qualms about slaying me in my weakened state."

"How sad."

Now Arthur _does_ look upset, and Emma's never been the sort of woman to ignore another human in distress. Well. He isn't strictly human, but he's one outwardly; the way his brow furrows and his mouth droops makes her feel irrationally cruel for ignoring his plight. And he's still expectantly holding her shoes, after all.

When Emma speaks again, it's before she's really thought it through.

A moment later, she's given him her attic.

* * *

**-x-**

* * *

**AN: **to be continued!

I shamelessly love vampire fic, and I found the EngBel section was sorely lacking it. Don't expect much in the way of heavy plotting here, but I hope it entertained you some – and there'll be more from this verse up soon.


	2. two

**AN: **As promised, a second instalment. The lack of feedback was slightly disheartening at first, but I'm going to take faves/follows as good signs, too! It lets me know you're out there - indecision prevented me from deciding on chapter titles.

* * *

**two**

* * *

As far as houses go, Emma's is the type to make guests smile _politely_.

Their most heartfelt commentary concerns what a _great deal_ a house that size came as – ignoring, of course, how long it had been on the market, the architectural equivalent of the tired old woman who lives, predictably, next door. Its exterior is weary while the neighbourhood is questionable, but Emma's done her best to make the inside... cosy.

It's because of her brother that she can _afford_ a house to begin with; Lars is happy to see her independent and off in the world, but only if he has a stake in it.

She'd always wanted an attic, though. Before her eyes were opened to this cruel world's injustices, Emma had fancied herself as the sort of woman to lounge, if she could make one. She would spend her weekends in her attic with a good book and chaise furniture, reclining her way back to spiritual peace after _such_ a busy week. But it wasn't to be – students are demanding; upholstery is expensive.

Arthur, at least, seems very happy with her attic as it is, the natural dumping-ground for boxes of Christmas decorations and many a pile of vulgar gifted rugs. Lars has his generous moments, but he most certainly has no future in décor.

"It's got _character_," he says – which is something guests tend to declare about the rest of her house, too, come to think of it.

"It's got _mould_." Emma furrows her brow, lingering near the hatch while a vampire inspects her attic like he's looking to rent.

"I can sort that out," Arthur confidently declares, coming to stand in the room's centre. There's a skylight, which he makes a point of eyeing – Emma briefly wonders if it's true, if a simple taste of sunlight would slow-cook him to a _lovely_ crispy brown. "I imagine I won't be getting much sleep, the way your kind potters around after sun-up. It'll give me something to do during the day."

"But I _work_ during the day," Emma replies. "I was walking home from work just now, actually – when you decided to eat me."

Arthur stares, then slowly develops a frown. "You walk home at _night_? By _yourself_, madam? Oh, that's hardly safe."

Emma eyes the vampire, her own personal skylight. "As I'm beginning to realise."

Irony apparently lost on him, Arthur strides towards one particular carpet-pile, nimbly tugging one from the centre. It's a queasily bright purple, even by moon alone, and Emma refuses to let herself smile when he drags it around his shoulders like a cloak.

"As I assume, Miss, you're not going to give me a bed-"

"Nope."

"-I suppose I'll have to make do and mend. You're not going to be using these, are you? I'd hate to inconvenience you."

Emma offers a tight-lipped smile. "Oh, don't worry. You're inconveniencing me enough already."

Arthur says nothing as he lowers the rug, but he does tip his head just enough to regard her without really looking. When he speaks again, it's prim, each word carefully chosen; the inhale he takes is akin to a sniff. "You know, I don't really see what I've done to warrant this abuse..."

"_Abuse_?" Emma abandons her attempts to keep a neutral expression. "Might I remind you that you tried to make me your – your _dinner_ without a second thought?"

Now he does look at her, jaw grinding with a sort of strength that pushes every crush of his teeth against his cheek. Perhaps the thrill of insulting a vampire is something best sought in moderation, so she forces her sweetest smile onto her lips.

To her surprise, Arthur has less violent plans than expected, looking away again with a hum. "I... apologise. It was uncouth of me to pursue a lone woman in the dark, but I've been – hungry, and I thought it would be easier than it, er... turned out to be."

It's curiosity, really, that makes Emma take a few steps forward. How often have vampires ever apologised, in folklore? She hugs herself, glancing up at him with intent, hoping respect for her earlier blow will make him behave even as she gets a bit _too_ close.

All good men must be married, gay or undead, because Arthur really _is_ quite handsome. Terrible eyebrows, if looked at by themselves, but there's something endearing about how natural they look on him if considered with his messy blond hair. When he looks at her, it's reminiscent of boys at school parties asking her to dance, startled and excited all at once; cute as that might be, she has a feeling it's just because he's imagining what it must be like to bite her.

She absent-mindedly rubs her neck.

"Are you hungry _now_?"

He crinkles his nose in thought. "Well – yes. But if you're set against generously donating, there isn't much I can do about that, is there?"

Emma considers huffing, but instead she nibbles her lip. "Say you don't get to eat. If you _haven't_ eaten for a while. Won't you... die?"

Much as she'd like it _not_ to be, her heart is gentle. Even to something like him, she extends it without a second thought – but it must've been a stupid question, because Arthur promptly snickers.

"Bit late for that, isn't it? Can't starve a vampire. But one _can_ make them irritable, so if you'd like to depart before I hurt you in a less physical manner, I shan't bother you again until I'm ready to depart and I need the door unlocked when–"

To interrupt, Emma raises a hand; she raises an eyebrow along with it for good measure. "You intend to just... leave without a fight?"

"Indeed I do. Or do you not believe me, madam?"

There's a pause while he examines her, smirk begetting a smile. Something's in his _eyes_, hopelessly mesmerising for all the wrong reasons – surely a vampire could throw her about like a ragdoll, if he wanted to, but all he's doing is scrutinising. Slightly put out, Emma looks down, at the little wet footprints her stockinged feet have left from padding about.

This sort of thing shouldn't happen to _her_.

Still, for all the absurdity, she can't decide what to say. It's both a blessing and a curse that a little mew from the landing below permeates their hush.

Arthur perks up – no wonder – while Emma glances over her shoulder, _horrified_. She finds that Jan has, predictably enough, not yet mastered the art of climbing ladder rungs, but he's calling for mummy from outside her bedroom, hungry and cold and in desperate need of a shower—

Perhaps Emma's projecting.

"What's _that_?" Arthur asks, a breathless whisper.

Emma folds her arms. "My kitten."

"An animal?"

"Not _edible_."

Now that Jan's kindly reminded her of his presence, Emma feels herself rapidly losing interest in her newfound lodger. Or, rather, she's losing interest in feeling vaguely unsettled, because she shouldn't _have_ to feel like that in her own home. When she looks back to Arthur, really stares at him, he's already begun unearthing more and more of her brother's carpetings, sifting through them in a quest to determine his favourites.

Arthur rubs the corner of a particularly fuzzy one against his cheek, chuckling with amusement. Emma decides to pretend that's not something she saw; _vampires_ must crave simple comforts too.

"I am going to feed my cat now," she declares – though she doesn't sound sure. It's shaky even to her own ears. "I know a promise from you is about as reliable as your _country_ during a referendum on the euro – but will you at least try not to come downstairs and scare me?"

The demure smile Arthur wears tells her he probably has no idea what a euro is, but for some reason, she finds herself believing him when he nods. "I wouldn't dream of it, madam. I'm a guest in your home and you've certainly established your boundaries; I did say I'll be on my best behaviour."

"_Well_," she begins, then falters. "Good."

Despite the momentary bout of trust he's inspired, she doesn't take her line of vision away from him as she moves to descend the ladder. She watches him until she can't watch any more, taking satisfaction from how neatly the attic hatch closes when she pulls its cord – and then, of course, she moves the ladder away from it.

At the very least, she'll hear him fall if he tries to escape.

Jan begins following her around the moment her feet touch the landing floor, but that's only natural. He's young and small and he's designated her as mother, a role she's only too happy to fill, scooping him up into the cradle of her arms once she can.

"I will not let the nasty man _eat_ you," she coos into his fur, as she marches him off towards the stairs.

Jan purrs, which isn't _quite_ the appropriate response – or maybe he knew he'd have good reason to. Arthur, true to his word, does not intrude on them until morning.

* * *

Or describing it as morning might be pushing it.

It's _six o' clock_ when a loud bang jerks Emma from her sleep – earlier than she ever wakes, even on school days. Her Saturday mornings are her best attempts at being a lady of lounging, an impressive lie-in followed by a lazy afternoon, when not meeting with friends.

Staring with sore eyes at the ceiling, Emma wonders if she'd only dreamt a sound of that magnitude. It's a wonder she managed to sleep at all with something like Arthur lurking upstairs, but she only dismisses the nightmare theory when something else crashes in the attic, enough to make the lampshade above the bed tremble.

And Emma isn't the only one rudely interrupted. From where he'd been curled at her side, Jan stirs; he's unused to light like this, if the way his little eyes blink unevenly is any indication. That doesn't stop him from happily shuffling into the warm indent left by Emma when she rises, a tuft of black fur barely visible under the duvet.

Sunlight is her friend, she decides. It will serve as her ally while she scolds a noisy vampire, marching out to stand beneath the attic hatch with hands appropriately on hips. Arthur can't see it – but it gives her the confidence she needs to use her 'telling-off voice', the tone usually assumed around disappointing little delinquents at school.

"What are you _doing_ up there?" she demands – as good an opening statement as any.

There's another bang, this time smaller. Something emits a swish, like two slabs of card rubbing briskly together, and Emma briefly wonders if Arthur's idea of redecorating involves throwing boxes around the room.

After the storm comes calm. Slightly muffled, Arthur's voice declares: "I'm all right."

"I didn't ask if _you_ were all right. I want to know if you've broken my things."

Arthur's indignant little snarl is quieter, but it's still audible.

"Your precious belongings are perfectly fine. I thought – you know, as peace of mind – that it might be best to hang a particularly heavy rug over the window up here, but it's proving unexpectedly difficult to dislodge it."

"Right," Emma calls back, rubbing her sore forehead. "And do you _need_ it?"

"_Yes_," Arthur insists at first. Emma's silence must prompt him into uncertainty, because he goes on, "Well. No, not _yet_, but–"

"Not yet will do for now." Her tone is far sweeter than the amount of sleep she's had usually affords. "It's six in the morning and – speaking for _both_ of us – I'm sure we can agree that's a ridiculous hour to be up at. You're staying here on the condition you don't interfere with _my_ life, do you understand?"

But Arthur's gone silent. She takes drowsy amusement from imagining he's sulking up there, an undead caricature of her most immature students.

"The noise you're making is very much the definition of interfering, so if you don't want me to be extremely cross with you, you'll be _quiet_ until Jan and I make it known we're awake. Understood?"

It might be the sunlight, she thinks, that's making her so surefooted – but it's also the distance. There is a floor and a clunky hatch between them; she feels confident enough to be cranky.

She doesn't expect Arthur to reply, having waited what feels like a moment too long for feedback. She's pleasantly surprised when she receives a gruff "_Understood_," and the faint rustling of Jan between her bedsheets promptly calls her back to sleep.

But sunlight and clunky hatches have gone to her head. She gently runs her fingers through her pillow-messy hair, smiling so widely at the hatch she wouldn't be surprised if it took to smiling back. Mm. Knowing there's nothing he can do to protest – not currently – she ventures to add, "I'm glad, though."

A few distant footsteps. Then Arthur echoes, "_Glad_?"

"Glad you're all right. I suppose, because you are sleeping in my attic and your tooth is in my purse, _you_ are one of my precious belongings."

Though she hears him splutter, Arthur says nothing – she hadn't expected him to.

Once she's satisfied his pursuit of that rug is over, she slinks back to her room. There's no honour in moving Jan, so she graciously takes the colder side of the bed, even if her hands gravitate towards his tiny, furry body when her eyes slide shut.

Undisturbed, Emma sleeps into lunch. Her lodger does not bother her.

* * *

**-o-**


	3. three

**AN: **Huzzah, feedback! And lovely feedback at that, though I'm sorry it took me a while to update, so have a slightly longer chapter to make up for it. As for the anonymous commenter's question, I did mention it in prior chapters, but it should be answered below!

* * *

**three**

* * *

Emma abandoned her career in secret-keeping at the age of nine years old, when she'd accidentally blurted everything to Lars about the birthday party she'd been planning for him – _surprise_!

The party went ahead, of course, but it wasn't quite the same (in part due to her brother's insistence that her budgeting on everything should be drastically scaled down). Emma is twenty-five now, and she really does know better; she's lived an honest life, if only because she knows she'd be no good at lying. Secrecy is a tantalising sin best left untouched.

That's why her morning reflection, upon finding herself back in her classroom after a worryingly uneventful weekend, concerns how on Earth she could be this _stupid_. A birthday party is one thing; housing a fictional creature is quite another, even if said creature doesn't appear to be all that fictional, these days. As she hears her whooping students flooding in from the playground, she furiously searches herself for a decent excuse she could make, if for whatever reason she let _that_ secret slip.

She could make a running joke of it, perhaps. _If you're not all very quiet during circle-time, _she'll tell them, tone appropriately hushed, _the vampire from my attic will jump in and gobble you all up! _To which her students predictably laugh, as they always do, at silly Miss Janssens – but the plumpest little troublemakers will cease their troublemaking when Arthur appears behind them with a fittingly monstrous appetite.

Oh, but what a horrible notion! She wouldn't really wish her students eaten.

Most of them, anyway.

A voice from the doorway alerts her she has no time for further pondering – which is a shame, because she was doing so well. What the voice _really_ says would come under the banner of a cordial greeting, but to Emma, it's a weapon to turn hearts into marshmallow.

"_Buenos días_, Miss Janssens, and what a _días_ it is!" Antonio declares. He sweeps into her classroom with the confidence of a man who has every right to be there – and he doesn't, because it really is _her_ classroom, but she isn't teaching yet and Antonio is a _very_ welcome guest.

He is thirty-two and teaches gym, but he's still popular with students because he's really rather lazy. His classes are as laid-back as his general manner, so the real conundrum about him is as to whether or not his chocolate-brown hair is darker than his mossy-green eyes. This is something Emma has become something of an expert on, with all the _many_ hours she's spent lost in the latter – hypothetically.

She hasn't spent much physical time looking wantonly over Antonio's colour palette, because the glistening golden ring on his finger prevents it. Sometimes, the best men are gay _and_ married.

"Is that grammatically correct, Mr. Carriedo?" she allows herself to tease – grammar is ever so coquettish.

Still, it does earn her a wink (one she'll imagine as being far more smouldering later). "Ah, Emma. Mixing the language of love with the language of stick-in-the-muds is never really _correct_."

Emma giggles at that, somewhat shallowly. She briefly imagines Arthur would have something to say – but then she doesn't, too busy replying, "Is there something you _wanted_...?"

"To see what went wrong!" he says, but as he speaks he's distracted by wall-displays. That's her Toni... er, _not_ her Toni. "Me and Lovi invited everyone out for drinks on Sunday – and it worried me that even _Roderich_ showed, but you didn't wanna come!"

"Oh." She'd half-hoped he wouldn't notice.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Of course not!"

"Then were you busy?"

"I wasn't feeling well."

It's not as blatant as a lie from her usually would be, because there's some truth to it: she _would_ have only felt sick, seeing Mr. Carriedo fawn and dote over Mr. Vargas at the bar. And she likes Lovino – really, she does, constantly angry in the most amusing way – but even learning of their nuptials wasn't enough to crush her, erm... crush.

"_Aww_," Toni says. He comes to stand before her desk, gazing down at her with the same half-pout one reserves for observing trembling puppies. She _would_ find it condescending... but he gets away with it this time, because he's cute. "Aw, Emma – you have to come to dinner, when you're not sick. Lovi likes you, and I like you, and I really, really hope you still like _me_—"

"I like you!" Emma blurts.

Thankfully, Toni is the product of endless blissful ignorance. "Good! Then you'll come over sometime, right?"

"Well..."

"We'd love to have you – it'll be fun!"

Assumedly, this is a universe where waxing and spiders are also 'fun', because Emma can't think of anything worse. She doesn't want to. But she can't exactly keep saying _no_.

And she doesn't have to, the Gods above deciding to smile on her by sending a stampede of children into her classroom instead. It's drizzling outside (or as her students call it, actually pouring buckets), so they've decided to take refuge in Miss Janssens' classroom early – that's what she gathers, anyway, from the en masse "it's actually pouring buckets" declaration.

When Emma looks to him with a faux-apologetic smile, Antonio, good-naturedly stepping aside, only flashes her his trademark dozy grin. He might be perpetually oblivious, but even he understands this is an act of divine intervention, making _call-me_ gestures as he expertly walks backwards from her room; that man's sheer dumb luck is astounding, because he manages to knock no rushing children over like skittles.

Oh, yes; she'd love to call him. But not for the reasons he's after.

* * *

It's a testament to the pettiness of human nature that a five-minute conversation can leave a dark cloud hanging over her for the rest of the day. Emma _knows_ she's not being fair, but it's difficult to stay reasonable when she's a hopeless romantic who sees her hot colleague's equally hot husband as merely a romcom obstacle.

Goodness knows if Toni's even _interested_ in women.

Emma's commute back from work thankfully reinstates the bus as her primary mode of transport – though she'd chosen to wear flat shoes today, just in case. Acquiring another suspiciously quiet lodger isn't her first priority. Still, it's only _slightly_ better than walking because she doesn't get her usual window-seat, which leaves her feeling well and truly sorry for herself by the time she finally arrives home.

Her first act, upon besting the front door's lock, is not to hunt down her phone and call Toni. Her first act is to make a beeline for the leftover chocolate cake calling to her from the fridge.

"And where have _you_ been?" the staircase demands, while she's making her way across the hall – rudely interrupting her mission mid-march. Emma half-turns, saying nothing, but raises one brow curiously instead.

It's Arthur, obviously. A staircase would be more abusive if it could talk, what with how Emma constantly walks all over it. The vampire currently standing on it looks _ridiculous_, glaring down from the middle step while holding a thick, furry rug over his head like a Roman shield.

It's slightly worrying that he's down from the attic, but what bothers her most is the fact she can see _Jan_ nestled against his ankle through the banisters.

"Kitty!" she hisses. She snaps her fingers, eager to attract his attention. "Don't go near him – that is a bad man! He'll _eat_ you!"

Arthur scoffs, aristocratic. "I'm not going to eat your _cat_. For one, he'd taste disgusting." A sharp sniff, and then, "Anyway, I'm rather fond of him. He's great fun. Earlier, he—"

"_Earlier_?" Emma's hands gravitate to her hips... not the first time they'd been there, what with her students being particularly boisterous after the weekend. "How long have you been out for?"

"I'm sorry; am I not allowed to go for a wander when I can't sleep?"

"I only agreed for you to stay in the attic. The rest of this is _my_ house."

"Ha! That's a violation of my _human rights_—"

"You abandoned your claim on human rights when you started feeding on humans!"

Arthur's sharp eyes stare at her blankly from beneath the shade cast upon them by that rug. A moment passes before he gingerly states, "Touché."

Once again, Emma finds herself in the grasp of the surreal: she should not be having this conversation. No, she should be having cake, so she folds her arms across her chest instead in an attempt to seem wonderfully intimidating.

"Go back to your room."

The vampire, bastard that he is, _grins_. "Oh, but mummy, it's dreadfully boring. I only came down because I wanted to talk to _you_, actually, but then I encountered your ferocious wee lion here-" He nudges Jan gently with his foot, "-and we became fast friends in shared waiting."

"Waiting?" Emma says, surprised. She makes a mental note to scold Jan for his betrayal later, of course, but for now, she begrudgingly lends Arthur her ears. "I was out. I had to work."

"_Ah_. Say no more." Arthur almost sounds wistful. "I remember work."

"Some of us still have it."

Huffing, Arthur shifts the rug slightly around him. Emma hadn't quite understood why he was carrying it, but it occurs to her now that it's because he _needs_ it. Her curtains aren't drawn and the house has sizeable windows, enough for it to be drenched in sunlight – her reassuring last line of defence against him.

Creatures of the night, she thinks, are actually quite pathetic.

"I'd do work if you wanted me to, madam. Things around the house. If you're going to be at work all the time, I haven't got anything to occupy myself with during the day... and I really can't sleep."

"Oh?" Emma's posture relaxes, only slightly. "Why ever not?"

His jaw goes lax with a scowl so juvenile it almost makes her laugh: it's in the protrusion of his bottom lip, the way his brows fall too heavily upon eagerly staring eyes. But it's what he says next, with no hint of irony, that really _does_ set her off.

"I'm bloody well teething, aren't I?"

It's nearly enough to make her disregard the negatives of today in favour of this absolute positive. While Emma sinks into a fit of giggles, pressing her hands desperately against her mouth in an attempt to quell them, Arthur glares at her – she's not able to keep her eyes open to see it, granted, but she can feel his disapproving gaze all over her, outraged and worthy of a true stick-in-the-mud.

But it's not right of her. She knows it's cruel; here he is, asking to do things for her, and she's mocking the state _she_ put him in. Even if it's to lull her into a false sense of security, it's still an offer... so she looks at him again through a stream of residual laughter, forcing onto her face the closest she can get to a sympathetic smile.

Arthur's cheeks have gone so pink she can see them from beneath his cover. She didn't know vampires could blush, but then again, she didn't know they _teethed_, either.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry – you and I have to get along until you're better, and I know it isn't very nice, growing teeth. Why, some of my students are already getting their twelve-year molars!"

This apparently means nothing to Arthur. At least he deigns to look at her again, expressionless, tugging the rug further around his head like it's a shawl.

"You know," he begins, "I thought – maybe – it would be nice to talk to you. Rather, to apologise, because it's quite clear there's some animosity on your end."

Animosity! Nearly gasping from the indignity of it, Emma's slender arms come to cross. To her credit – she credits herself, anyway – she doesn't say anything.

Neither does Arthur, but his eyes carry a brooding gleam that tells her he's crafting sentences. Her gaze flickers to his feet while he bends down (rather gracefully, too, to keep that rug in place), scooping a protest-mewling Jan from the staircase and clasping kitty against his chest.

No sooner is he standing again than he's speaking, gaze fixed on her with a sudden intensity that very nearly leaves her breathless. It must be enchantment, or something supernatural, but she can't bring herself to look away, the plaster cast of a rabbit once frozen by car headlights – oh, at least he's nice to look at.

"I do mean it, you know. When I say I'm sorry. And it's incredibly difficult for me to apologise in the face of anything, so I hope you can appreciate how long it's taken me to muster the bravado to approach you; it's quite understandable if you'd rather not accept it, but ah, madam, you needn't be afraid of me."

To this, Emma takes appropriate offence. Enchantments hath no authority like a woman mildly miffed.

"I'm not _afraid_ of you-!"

"But you are." Arthur's tone is surprisingly calm for a vampire without a good set of teeth, and she contemplates the injustice of it all. But she can't speak, not quickly enough to cut him off from continuing, "I can smell it, even if I can't do much about it – and why else would you resign me to your _attic_, of all things? I've been wined and dined in the castles of Persia, the temples of Manchuria; I have never been confined to a schoolteacher's _storage_."

"I never said I was a schoolteacher."

For whatever reason, that silences him; only for a moment. His explanation is fittingly alarming, angling his head to flatly declare, "And yet I smell it on you. Youth, that is. Little ones."

Emma smiles anyway. _Her_ little ones, sometimes sweet and often bothersome. "You like smelling me, don't you?"

"I _do_ like your perfume."

He's stroking Jasper, now, little scratches behind the ear, and if he wasn't already such a British movie villain it would wholly complete his aesthetic. Perhaps he's right – but he's frightening, that's just what he is; any woman foolish enough to let a vampire into their home would have a few immediate regrets.

But his toffish, old-fashioned manner doesn't exactly scream _killer_. When she looks at Arthur again, she sees a boy, lopsidedly grinning at the purring Judas in his arms. His nose is regal, with the slightest upturn, but his cheeks look soft and his hair is such a _mess_.

Any friend of Jasper's, she thinks, must surely be a friend of hers.

* * *

Heaven knows how many women Arthur's seen in his Persian palaces and Manchurian temples, but Emma's humble flats have won his approval. He's turning them over in his hands, examining the rubber soles with awe at modern fashion, and Emma doesn't have the heart to tell him they cost a meagre ten euros back in Ostend.

It is dusk, dinner taken care of and terrible television consumed. Sunlight having faded enough for Arthur to expose the sunlight, Emma's staring up at it – while naturally tucking in to that leftover chocolate cake.

She could get used to this, she supposes. Having a vampire _ooh_ and _ahh_ over her very cheapest items of clothing while enjoying late pudding beneath the pseudo-stars, Jan nobly clambering all over her stretched-out legs. His tiny claws are still enough to rip holes in her stockings if he presses too hard... but Emma's always liked to live dangerously.

"Enjoying that, are you? I was always quite the fan of sweet things – before they lost their attraction somewhat, that is."

So says Arthur, seated cross-legged on the floor a fair distance away from her. He's neatly setting her shoes down while she's taking her time with her latest mouthful; she'll talk to him, but she intends to savour her cake first.

"It's good." She smiles briefly around the fork. "But as I'm the one who baked it, I don't want to sound too... too... big for my boots."

Incredulous, Arthur glances at those shoes. "They must be very small boots to begin with."

"Small!" Emma huffs as she looks to her toes, wiggling them without considering how distracting Jan finds movement. "You don't have to tease me."

"No, I believe you. I'd say being good in the kitchen suits you."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Arthur grins; his face is a curious picture beneath dim light. Ringed, gleaming eyes and one white fang, proudly jutting over his bottom lip.

"Nothing like that, madam; calm your passions. I'm merely suggesting you're – the homely type."

"And that is supposed to make me _calmer_!"

"I don't know why you see it as such an insult! _I'm_ the homely type," he insists. "I'd much rather spend my nights curled up with a good book than creeping into the bedroom of a virginal foreign princess."

He adjusts the fabric of his black cravat: dark clothes, pale shirt. Emma takes another bite of cake, watching him quietly for a moment before putting the plate down altogether.

"And have you done that often?"

Arthur perks up. "Pardon?"

"Have you often crept into the bedrooms of virginal foreign princesses?"

She isn't sure why she's asking – save for morbid curiosity. There is a man older than centuries before her (or at least, so she's assumed from the way he dresses) and it would feel like a wasted opportunity, if she didn't question him. While Arthur regards her with an uneasy grimace, Jan decides to make a nest out of her lap, picking and pulling at her skirt until he rests easy; her only response is to lazily place her hand atop his wee fuzzy head.

"No, not... exactly. Don't misunderstand me; the opportunity has presented itself, but it's foolish to target such high-profile prey. The best way to stay hidden is in plain sight, which isn't easy with a face smeared like a child who found the jam."

Emma giggles softly. She's aware it's not the correct response to a comment on _human blood_, but this whole arrangement isn't very natural.

"I see. I'm sorry, I'm sorry – just nosy."

"It's all right." Arthur raises a hand to his cravat again, but only to tuck it there. "You have questions for me?"

"Maybe. A few. I suppose you're... interesting."

Emma regrets saying that when his face lights up, boasting an arrogant, tilted grin that seems to be his default. Tell her 'vampire' and she thinks of more subtle creatures than he, so unashamedly basking in the faintest praise.

"You're perfectly welcome to ask whatever takes your fancy. It's only natural to interview a lodger, but I can only _imagine_ how many things you're dying to ask."

Despite his insistence on continuing his 'smug' aesthetic, he does have a point. How many folktale monsters has she ever met, unknowingly or otherwise? There are plenty of recollections and musings Emma wishes to extract from him, information she might just get if she uses any degree of tact.

But tact is not something Emma's known for, so she says, with no hint of irony, "How did you _die_?"

Well. At least the insufferable smile topples from Arthur's face.

"That," he says, subdued, "is not something I'd like to discuss." His voice may be soft but his body is louder, coattails drawn in a slow swish across the floor while he squirms where he's sitting. The sight fascinates her; she didn't think it would be possible to make a vampire uncomfortable, something only made all the more impressive when he meekly tacks on, "If that's all right."

_Bad death, huh_, she thinks, considering patting his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. But she can't, because it's not something she's ever experienced and, truth be told, she's nervous about going closer to him. He's being nice now, sure; he's still a killer. Her nerve only goes so far.

"I'm very sorry," Emma says all the same, timid, feeling rather like a student caught asking something naughty during show and tell. Oh, how wonderful it would be to show Arthur off. Her very own pet monster, provided she keeps breaking his teeth out of his talkative mouth. Maybe next time, she'll go the whole way and put them both on a necklace, or...

"But anything else," Arthur's saying, tugging her rudely back to the present. She glances down, briefly; his hand is now a soft, warm weight on her knee. "If there's anything _else_ you'd like to know."

She'd rather like to know why he's touching her, but that just seems like something rude to ask. He isn't doing it in a creepy way, she thinks; it's simply to seize her attention the same way _Jan_ does, petting and pawing and occasionally biting – well. That's something Arthur has copyrighted.

But Jan doesn't appreciate the other aspects of his style being plagiarised, emitting an indignant miaou before batting Arthur's hand away. Emma tuts, tapping her kitten's nose to scold him; be _nice_ to the scary fanged guest.

"Your cat is rather more fond of me when you're not here," Arthur mutters.

"Would you like some cake?" Emma replies.

Arthur stares at her. She knows exactly why he's baffled but, in a true portrait of her ridiculous thought process, she feels the need to lift the plate of cake and show it off to him.

"Cake. I know you said it doesn't taste the same now that you're... toothy and all, but I'll feel like I'm spoiling my diet if I have _all_ of it."

At least Arthur smiles again. "I fear it's already been spoilt, madam."

"Rude, rude! Would you like some or not?"

"Go on, then."

With that, he raises one thick brow, apparently not used to Emma's most _serious_ tone. With such darling little angels to practice on daily at her disposal, she's become rather fearsome – so his response of an airy laugh is not entirely what she expected, but it's a start.

Jan decides, as is his way, that it's time to take a nap, so Emma is slow and steady while elevating the plate. But she isn't foolish enough to entrust Arthur with the whole thing, diet be damned, so she spears a fair amount with her fork, holding it out towards his thin, pale lips.

He's _not_ appreciative. In fact, he's rather frowny, eyeing her like he can't believe she expects to get away with feeding a ferocious creature of the night from her _cutlery_... while leaning forward only slightly, of course, so as not to seem to co-operative with the entire affair. Emma smiles; there is a certain shared fragility in the ego of a man and the ego of a cat.

Still, he opens his mouth to let her feed him, and Emma feels a certain thrill trickle through her when Arthur curls five fingers around her wrist to steady her generous hand. She knows she hasn't, not really, but it's almost like she's tamed the beast, to see him docile and quiet and eating cake skewered on a fork. The piece disappears into his mouth and he lingers for a moment, pulling back once he's satisfied no single crumb will fall when he pulls away – how awfully neat. He _looks_ like a gent from archaic literature, so it stands to reason he'd at least have table manners.

"Is it good?" Emma asks. To her own ears she sounds hopeful, though she mostly just feels pleased he's chewing it, needlessly pensive over her silly homemade cake.

"_Top-notch_." Arthur's tongue, small and pink and pointed, laps once across his already-clean lips. "You're wasted on teaching. And I say this as someone who's been fed quite a lot of cake by numerous pretty women."

Oh. Well then.

Mindful of her kitten, Emma draws her legs lazily back across the floor, tucking them in beneath her – mostly to give herself something to look at instead of him. She _is_ particularly proud of her baking, but she doesn't want him to see how furiously such a simple comment is making her blush... even if she's not stupid enough to think it's genuine. This is what vampires do; they're all charm and smarm until they see a nice juicy neck.

"That man."

Emma can't keep a baffled frown off her face in time. "Man?"

Arthur's eyes are on her, almost unnervingly so, and he's got the hand he used to touch her hovering just in front of his nose. He is motionless, save for the slight shapes his mouth makes while he murmurs, "The man I smell on you. You're fond of him, aren't you?"

Ah. Antonio. Emma's second thrill of the night comes with imagining she's _graced_ by Antonio's scent, but it's unlikely: Arthur simply has the most unnecessary sixth senses.

In fairness, she knows Arthur doesn't mean anything malicious by such a question. He's just as nosy as she is, and he's trying his best to pluck conversation from a mutually suspicious air – because they are not friends, attic man and attic owner.

Not yet? Not possible? Not ever, at all, in the foreseeable future?

She taps her fork against the plate. "That's not something I'd like to discuss. If that's all right."

"Understood."

But Arthur's still watching her, even if he won't press the issue. Emma forces herself to look up at him, the inside of her mouth both dry and chocolate-tasting, meeting a gaze that is focused but without edges, far more concerned than a member of the undead has any right to be. It is an act, Emma decides, even when she offers him the weakest little smile, a patchwork of unchanging eyes and drooping edges – the smile universally delivered by women when asked about their One True Love who's turned out to be pretty damn gay (and not in a way that _suits_)...

And Arthur smiles back, wide in an attempt to be far more cheerful than he's clearly comfortable with, but it's an act even then. He's not her friend. It's an act that Emma knows better than to trust.

* * *

**-o-**


	4. four

**AN: **Though I fear I'm posting into the void a bit, I'm still going to apologise to any lurking readers for my lateness. Here's a quick chapter to tide you over!

* * *

**four**

* * *

When Emma wakes, she is vaguely aware of three uncomfortable things: firstly, that her cheek is numb; secondly, that her toes are cold; and thirdly, that her room smells like sawdust.

On further reflection, she decides the sawdust scent isn't all _that_ bad, but she's still reluctant to open her eyes. In her loose authority over her senses, faculties drifting begrudgingly back into play, she's gathered that her cheek feels strange because it's not pressed against a pillow: rather, it's wedged uncomfortably against floorboards. There is a blanket around her, so her first thought is that she must've tumbled out of bed at some point during the night – until she remembers her bedroom is carpeted.

With some difficulty, she peels one eye open, then the other. It takes another moment of inertia for the fog of sleep to clear, but when it does, she sees her attic's floor skittering away from where she lies, a corner of the garish rug draped over her registering in the corner of her vision.

Oh, no wonder she feels _rough_.

First inspection reveals only the usual boxes and dusty furniture, but once she's sitting upright and indignantly groaning from the ache in her head, Emma notices the furry mound curled up on her right. Just a bit away from her – so as not to fall prey to the strips of sunlight the covered window lets in at its edges – is Arthur, sat on his haunches with another one of his rugs pulled over his head. That can't be comfortable, though she briefly wonders if he stayed like that all night.

"Good morning," he states, only once she's finished groaning – how polite of him.

Emma frowns, rubbing her forehead with the heel of her palm. It doesn't clear the dense store of fog within her skull, but it helps with the ache. A bit.

"Did I sleep here?" she asks, though she hardly needs to.

He merely nods.

There is something unsettling about just how unflinching his gaze is, and dread washes over her belly when an attempt at challenging it doesn't make him back down. She presses her hand against her throat, still with some wits about her, and sighs assuredly when no _bitemarks_ reveal themselves.

"I didn't touch you," he says, an indignant mutter. "_Madam_."

"Then why didn't you wake me?" she asks, frowning.

It's then she glances across the rug thrown over her: he must've done it, because the last thing she remembers was lying back on her elbows across the attic floor. Just to rest her eyes. She had no intention of staying, and she was sleepy and well aware of how early she had to get up tomorrow but he'd been telling this rather amusing story about something he did during the Crimean War of 1853 and...

"You were sleeping," he replies with a shrug.

"This was not what I would call _sleeping_."

"It's your house," he insists. "Something you've been very good at explaining, so I was subsequently rather reluctant to wake you as though I have any right to make you leave. After all, I'm merely one of your – what was it?" He crinkles his nose, sliding back into sitting cross-legged with a surprising degree of grace. "Your _belongings_. Inanimate and compliant."

_Meanie _springs to mind as another descriptor she could suggest, and if Emma was more awake, she'd offer him the sweetest smile with it, but she doesn't have the energy nor the time to argue with him. The time element comes courtesy of an old, novelty clock (face modelled in the guise of a cat) watching reproachfully from the wall – and it tells her she's going to be late, if she wastes any more breath here.

Dealing with a classroom of rowdy children after a terrible night's sleep is hardly an attractive prospect, but an upbeat front comes naturally to her. Happy smiles, cheerful lilt; everything's just hunky-dory.

She pushes groggily up from the floor and hunts down her shoes, slipping her chilly feet into them. There is still enough time before her bus, she assures herself, to head downstairs and change into slightly less dusty clothes – but before she can think about enacting that plan, she perks up with sudden realisation that she hasn't asked the most significant question of the morning.

"Where is Jan?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Jan. My _kitty_. Where did he go?

"Ah." Arthur nods curtly towards the attic-hatch, half-open and oddly draughty: no wonder her toes were cold, exposed as they were to it. "I thought it best to send him downstairs. He repeatedly attempted to pull the cover off the window, and I thought I'd spare you the trouble of having an inconvenient skeleton to deal with in the morning."

Emma does smile at that, however briefly. "You're so considerate."

"I like to think so." He tips his head, looking curiously up at her. "Working today, aren't you?"

"Sorry," is all she says, as she stuffs the rug he'd given her into a nearby cardboard container – then questions herself for apologising.

Why should it matter if he's left alone? Soft-hearted or no, she has little sympathy for people who tried to make a meal out of her... no matter how often they claim it was more like a snack.

She pads quietly to the ladder and crouches to push the hatch away properly, glancing back over her shoulder. His attention fixed to the floor, Arthur has apparently now lost interest in her, too busy nudging his thumb against the empty socket in his gum. His brow is furrowed, and she wants to tell him that what he's doing probably isn't dentally advisable, but the poor thing must be in pain.

Ha. _Poor thing_. Perhaps not.

"I think I can feel the new one growing in," he says proudly, murmuring like he isn't really expecting a response. Halfway through swinging her legs over the hatch-edge to make her descent to the landing, Emma doesn't give him one.

* * *

Perhaps this is just an unpleasant month, the universe taking a little back as payment for everything it's given her: she reminds herself that she has plenty to be grateful about. She will not cry. She will not break out her guilty-pleasure movies.

Emma wonders whether bad luck gave her the vampire or the vampire gave her bad luck, because her mood is made considerably worse at the sight of Antonio kissing Lovino when she finally arrives at the teacher's lounge. Antonio is pressed against the counter, hands seizing Lovino's hips – which is inconsiderate, because they're blocking off the kettle for everyone else.

"Excuse me," she meekly says, deciding to make her intentions known before they can get to using tongues and there's no hope of driving them apart. "I... would like to make some coffee."

Lovino, not known for promoting peace and goodwill amongst men, is the first to turn to her. He pulls away from Toni with reluctance, expression thunderous – only to relax when he sees it's just Emma.

That's what makes it hard. That Lovino _likes_ her. That they're supposed to be _friends_.

She sees Lovino less because he's not a permanent addition to the staffing body: he's a regional guidance advisor, and that is the _last_ job Emma would have ever thought the Italian should have, but he's apparently very good at it. He already thinks most people are bastards, so he's only too happy to help students expose said bastards for being the bastards they are.

"Ah, _bella_," he gruffly greets, and as he steps away from the Spaniard, he turns back to snap, "Hey, you heard the lady! Move your ass before I move it _for_ you."

Toni only grins – at Emma, that is, a complex combination of sheepish and devil-may-care. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't think anyone was going to walk in."

"It's all right." Emma activates the now-accessible kettle. It gives her something to stare at, just so she doesn't have to look at _them_. "I slept a little later than usual."

"That's not good," Toni helpfully replies. "You should try turning in earlier."

"Don't you think she already _knows_ that, prick? Besides, _you_ went to bed late."

"I wasn't sleepy! Besides, I came back to my Lovi eventually-"

"Yeah, and your hands were fucking _cold_."

Emma stops listening at precisely that point, heaping slow teaspoons of coffee granules into her usual mug. It's white, occupied by a little black cat with the handle as its tail – and it reminds her of Jan.

Jan, her last confidant, betraying her for the filthy affection of the living dead. She considers how the sickening lovebirds beside her would react if she told them she'd slept poorly because of a vampire, but she can only imagine Toni believing her a little _too_ quickly.

Her musings are broken when she hears one of the two state her name, and once she raises her head to look at them, she finds they're both staring quietly back.

She doesn't really want to admit she wasn't paying them any heed, so she meekly offers, "Hm?"

"Dinner," Toni states, determined. "Sometime soon? You said you'd come over and we really want to have y-"

"_I'll_ be doing the cooking," Lovino gruffly interrupts, as though that'll secure the deal. "Besides, Toni talks about you enough so it makes sense to just have you _in_ the goddamn house. You're not dating or whatever, right? So you'll be free this weekend?"

Emma's heart mutinously flips at the notion Antonio mentions _her_ to his husband, and she knows, from that occurrence alone, that she isn't ready for this.

She isn't ready to play dignified third wheel to their happy marriage, smiling politely as Lovino shoves his spit down the throat of a man she has a silly, residual crush on, jealousy pulsing through her because she hasn't found something like it yet. Her last boyfriend left her because she put on a few pounds from her healthy appreciation for cake. Her life doesn't _revolve_ around boys in the slightest, but she sometimes longs for someone who'll curl up with her on the sofa without poking his mister into her back – and the nicest thing a man's done for her lately is attempting to keep her warm as she slept on the floor. A measly moved rug.

That's why she next says what she says. She summons every thread of confidence within her, chin raised and posture straight, her pride composing her speech before her brain can.

"I _am_ dating, actually. So I'm not sure when I'll have the time."

Her desired reaction had been any acknowledgement from Lovino, his assuredness that she's a plain, unappealing spinster forcibly removed from him. Instead, he simply nods with acknowledgement – and it's Toni who gives the most animated reaction.

"You _are_? You didn't tell me! Have you been keeping secrets from me? Is it someone working here? You know I'm supposed to make sure they're good for you before you go out with them, Emma!"

He grins. She knows he's just looking out for her – but that _bothers_ her, because she can make her own decisions about which imaginary suitors to see, thank-you-very-much.

"Oh, we haven't been seeing each other for very _long_," she says airily, chewing her lip. "I didn't want to hex it, you know."

"I understand, I understand! But if you'd rather spend time with this mystery man than come for Lovi's cooking, it must be something serious – so maybe ask him to come with you?"

Emma, quite righteously, is startled. She gazes between Lovino and Toni with headlight-eyes, opening her mouth to speak: she knows what they're suggesting, but she doesn't know how to politely _decline_. Mr. Imaginary will not want to go to dinner with you, but he appreciates the offer, and he wonders if it would be rude to request you never mention him again?

Thankfully, Lovino speaks for her: or perhaps it's not so lucky after all. "It's not a formal thing. Just friends meeting up for food, right? I'm sure this guy won't give a shit... unless he takes offence to two guys getting laid more than he does."

Toni doesn't have anything to add, but the sudden disappearance of enthusiasm from his gaze tells her everything she needs to know. Emma's imaginary man would most certainly _not_ be a bigot, and her eyes widen further (something she hadn't thought possible) as she hastily drops her teaspoon into her mug.

"He doesn't! He's... nice. You'll like him, I promise."

"Then... Friday?" Toni offers – to which Lovino grunts in support.

"I – well, I'll have to ask him—"

"If he won't meet your friends, he's not worth you, _chica_! Call tonight, okay?"

This is a done deal when Emma hasn't said a word of agreement, but she only curses herself for being so weak. So _foolish_.

Why should it _matter_ what anyone else thinks of her?

Toni says something about having a student to see soon, to which Lovino contributes a vague concurrence. Emma isn't listening again: her blood is rushing too loudly through her ears to begin with, but her rebellious heart has taken to pounding insufferably within her chest, eager to see the world beyond her ribcage.

She has never been a good liar. Just like she can't keep surprise parties secret, just like she can't tell a vampire _no_ when he demands to live in her house.

The rug-moving monster man.

When she looks up, the Latin lovers are gone, and Emma rests her unsteady hands on the counter. She's a quick thinker, despite her flaws, and one solution has presented itself to her that seems more likely to work than attempting to seduce a real live man by Friday.

It's just a thought – an extremely stupid thought, but Arthur said he's her _servant_, didn't he? And he'd tried her cake without dying, or something equally dramatic, so she supposes he could sit through a few pasta dishes from Lovino's admittedly pleasant arsenal.

If she promises to get him home before sunrise, he's got nothing to object to, doesn't he? He's not bad looking, she supposes. In fact, he appears to be a particularly handsome recent death – not that Emma usually enjoys aesthetic corpses – but she can spruce that up with a nice shirt, perhaps some rouge for his cheeks... Her living-dead lodger might just pass as the sort of extremely strange boyfriend that resides within Emma's league.

She laughs. It tumbles from her lips before she can stop herself, and she knows she's going to be late for class but she can't walk in to address her students whilst in hysterics. It's a steady, giggling stream of misplaced amusement; she isn't going to cry about it, but she is most certainly going to laugh at it. _It_ being everything her life has become.

Emma can keep sunny. Happy smiles, cheerful lilt; everything's probably hunky-dory.

* * *

**-o-**


	5. five

**AN: **I must begin with appreciation for user pandahero2P! I run out of steam for fics if I'm not sure people are enjoying them, but their lovely commentary prompted me into getting back to work, so thank you.

* * *

**five**

* * *

When Jan sleeps, it sadly means petting is out of the question, but at least it _looks_ lovely. He makes an occasional inconvenience of himself by sprawling out where he's slumbering, a mass of fur and claws occupying far more room than he needs upon Emma's mattress – but that's a far cry from the way he rests when he's all tuckered out on the couch. His back legs cross at their ankles like an imitation of some coquettish starlet, while his fuzzy head with fluttering eyes rests upon the two front paws he's tucked under it.

When _Arthur_ sleeps, it's not so lovely. Emma has never understood the female fascination with snoring boys, because the sight of Arthur stretched out across her sofa with all the curtains drawn (flopped onto his front, one foot dangling above the floor with arms following suit, open-mouthed and possibly _drooling_) – it's not appealing in the slightest. The only saving grace to such a picture is how _Jan_ appears, curled up against the vampire's side.

"Ahem," Emma says. It's not what she'd like to say – she'd much prefer to demand what he thinks he's doing, being out of her attic again without her around to grant permission – but sleeping people rarely utter things that make any sense.

Arthur hardly responds. He peels one eye open, adjusting to the electric light Emma helpfully switched on, but it's only when Jan has stirred enough to mewl that he bothers to formulate a reply.

"You're _late_."

"I had something to do, Mr. Dracula, is that all right?"

A frown blooms upon Arthur's face, and he pushes himself up on one elbow.

"Don't call me that. Dracula is a _tosspot_."

"I'm sure he is."

"It's _dark_ outside."

"Breakfast time for you, then? Don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it – but it's a very peculiar time for school to be let out, don't you agree?"

Emma smiles before she can stop it, so she naturally tips her head down, petting Jan as an excuse. "Ah, ah. I should be asking _you_ why you've been dozing in my living room."

"Aren't you going to tell me why you're late?"

To that, Emma bites her lip. _No, thank you_, she wants to say, but Arthur is rising from his seat – he moves with the sort of elegance belonging to a creature that shouldn't be trusted, and she can't help the instinctive step she takes back.

But she finds she needn't have bothered, because he apparently only got up to stretch his arms... and to yawn. His mouth falls wide, just for a moment, but she still sees it, one long white fang and the tiniest hint of a stump. He was right, when he told her he could feel his new dentition. Oh, how is she going to hide such ludicrous _teeth_?

(Maybe Toni and Lovino will think it's just because he's British.)

Two things make her move briskly away from Arthur again: imagining her colleagues reminds her of the boutique shopping bag on her wrist, and now, Arthur has noticed that item too, if his curious stare means anything. He moves towards her while she moves away, but he's stooping slightly to unashamedly attempt peeking into said bag.

"What's this?"

"It's – nothing, really."

"Looks expensive."

"I went shopping."

"What _for_?"

"Why does it matter?" Emma snaps – as she finally decides to stand her ground, digging her proverbial heels into the floor. She feels a tad braver because Jan has appeared by her ankle: he knows who his mummy is, after all. "If I want to go shopping after work with my own money, for it is money I have earned by _myself_, then I shall do. You're not the boss of me – you're not my brother and you're not Toni and I wouldn't let either of them stop me _anyway_—"

"You smell like him."

Arthur speaks calmly, though it's _too_ calm. It might be his tone, or it might be the fact he's still got her cornered somewhat in front of the television – but she suddenly doesn't want to finish her little speech.

"You smell like that man again," Arthur goes on. He reaches for her wrist, the one not occupied by the handle of a paper boutique bag, and he lifts it gently to his mouth.

Or so it seems at first, the way his pursed lips hover above it. Emma hears her breath hitch without really feeling it, heart not beating but _writhing_, eager to evacuate her chest and save itself – because this man is no friendly cartoon monster who sleeps on couches. She doesn't _truly_ believe he can't do any damage with only one formidable fang.

She watches in frozen horror as he runs the tip of his nose along her wrist, sniffling her skin like a dog would. He's nothing but gentle, so gentle she could pull away if she tried... but she doesn't return her hand to her side until he finally tires of smelling her and lets go.

Impassive, Arthur gestures to the bag. "Did _he_ purchase this for you?"

"No," Emma says, and she very much wishes her voice didn't sound so much like a squeak. She shouldn't have to tell Arthur anything, she thinks, shouldn't have to be scared of horrid things in her own home, but she can't stop herself from adding, "I – I bought it for _you_."

She hadn't intended to tell him so quickly, that she spent her wages on a normal men's shirt and normal men's trousers. She wanted to explain her little plan first – but at the very least, it makes him back away from her. A breath of relief leaves her lips of its own accord.

"For _me_?" he repeats, hands fixed half-raised as though he wishes to play defensive. When Emma only nods, he adds, astounded, "_Oh_. You – you didn't have to, madam. I expect nothing more from you in light of the hospitality you've so graciously shown me already, and – and I didn't mean to frighten you, either."

Emma musters a frown. _Persevere_, is what Jan would be saying to his mummy if he could, as he rubs his cheek along her stocking.

"I'm not frightened."

"That's good, then."

They both know it's a lie, but her pride is the least Arthur owes her after such a display.

Emma has nothing to say to him, not now. She clasps her hands behind her back to hide her wrists, feeling rather miffed at being _smelt_ all the time. Though the paper bag crinkles its way into being the elephant in the room, she decides she isn't going to elaborate on its contents unless he asks.

And ask he does. "So you – brought me a gift, did you? Because I'm afraid I have nothing to offer you in return, aside from that gardening prowess we already discussed."

"It's not a problem," she replies, softly shaking her head. "I already know what you can give me in return."

"Begonias?"

It's almost laughable, how swiftly he can go from serpentine monster to hopeful horticulturalist, but for the moment Emma deigns to keep quiet. She produces the bag once more and deposits it in the centre of the carpet, neutral territory, taking refuge beside the television while waiting for him to glance within.

Arthur's steps are again slow as he moves towards it, but this time, it leaves Emma with the impression he's trying not to give her another near-miss with a heart attack. He sinks to his knees, first pulling out a shirt boasting the name of some nondescript rock band, then the denim jeans after it.

"Not begonias, exactly," she finally says, with a knowing smile. "What I want is _romance_."

Arthur lets out a choking sound, swiftly lifting his head to pin her with wild, staring eyes – and in any other circumstances, Emma would giggle. He's a picture, really, clutching modern clothes in sizes she guessed would fit him, watching her with a slack mouth and furrowed brow in a conflation of confusion and horror. It's what he says next that finally wrangles a laugh from her, despite her racing heart and nuzzling kitten and everything else in between.

"Some people find _begonias_ romantic."

* * *

A bad reaction is what Emma had been dreading most, only able to picture Arthur's face creasing with laughter – but as it turns out, she doesn't need to see his face at all. She ends up telling him through her bedroom door, as he sheds his dark suit inside to adopt his fresh, new 'acceptable date' outfit.

Though she receives an "_Oh_" to her explanation on what she needs him to do (and thankfully, nothing more than a brief grunt when she tells him Antonio's spouse is a man), what she doesn't receive is consent. She hadn't expected Arthur would jump at the chance to play her boyfriend – the whole thing sounded ridiculous in her head to begin with, and it sounds _worse_ when she utters it aloud – but she'd at least been expecting him to say yes or no.

Of course, Emma decides _not_ to tell Arthur that she is honestly, actually, madly in love with their dinner-host-to-be. He'd just get the wrong idea, what with how often he's been smelling Toni's scent on her.

After another minute passes in which she only hears clothing rustle, she decides to try again. She lifts a hand to the door and gently knocks – it's _her_ bedroom so she shouldn't have to, but she doesn't want to march in and accidentally catch a sight of Arthur in all his naked vampiric glory.

Or _does_ she? Well, she's admittedly curious: what does being undead do to a man's—

"Ready!" calls Arthur's voice before she can pursue the thought, and Emma clears her mind before entering the room.

The sight that greets her makes her think she's wasted on teaching. A career in fashion would be far more profitable. The man admiring himself in her full-length bedroom mirror is most definitely Arthur, with his messy blond hair and silly crooked grin, but he suddenly looks wonderfully _normal_. Beneath the dark suit, the Englishman is rather... well-built, a slender sort of strength contained beneath pale skin. His shoulders are broad – he's got the t-shirt to thank for showing it.

"I look like a broke student," he proudly declares, pushing one hand through his locks as he studies his reflection. "This will serve as an _excellent_ disguise, you know."

"For – being my boyfriend?"

"No, for hiding in plain sight. Nobody will suspect a broke student of being a vampire... once I get my teeth back, naturally."

Emma ignores him. She decides to tend to the clothes he's left scattered over her bed while he preens himself, folding a discarded black jacket first of all. Perhaps she should give up already; Arthur only seems happy to act when it's for the sake of lulling his food into a false sense of security, and the idea of entering Toni's happy home, fake boyfriend or not, is still _daunting_.

How long should she have been dating Arthur anyway, in this fantasy scenario? Long enough for him to meet her friends, but not long enough for him to be allowed public affection rights. No kissing or hugging or—

Hands on her hips. Emma is startled into dropping the jacket mid-fold, eyes widening while the rest of her freezes, because she suddenly feels Arthur holding her waist. She's bending slightly to gather up his clothes, and he exploits it by snugly shifting into place with her like puzzle pieces would, pressing his front against her back. He has no human warmth, but he has the softness of human presence: he grips her gently, rubbing his cool cheek against her flushing neck.

She wants to protest and demand an explanation. Her voice comes out as another embarrassing squeak, but she decides that's good enough.

"I'll give my heart and _soul_ to you," he purrs, a low rumble close to her ear. She wonders if she can pass off the way it makes her shiver as merely a reaction to how chilly his touch is. "Or I would, if either of them worked these days, but I'm sure I can convince a few moronic breathers that I'm your husband. If that's what you need me to do?"

"Not husband," she says, once she's regained her voice. "Just... _boyfriend_."

"Boyfriend, then." He tucks his head in between her jaw and shoulder, nuzzling softly. "How frightfully modern."

"A _new_ boyfriend, too, so you're not even one I'm meant to know very well." Emma places her hands over his, but only to try pushing them off as she goes on, "Certainly not one who would do _this_ kind of thing to me without expecting me to be very upset."

"Oh," is all Arthur says.

He pulls away from her as though she'd set herself alight, offering a muttered apology – and then he promptly goes back to examining himself in the mirror, leaving her rather more disorientated than relieved.

Crusade into neatness abandoned, Emma turns away from the bed and watches his reflection over his shoulder, swallowing in silence. It strikes her, in truth, that she doesn't know _Arthur_ very well either, their acquaintanceship born less than a week prior – but she doesn't have anyone else to ask. He doesn't seem to have any friends, if his response to losing a tooth was to move in with the person that broke it. Aside from Toni and Lovino, Emma's social circle in this big new city is equally limited.

"Arthur?" she says, hardly thinking.

"Yes, my dear?"

"You – where do you live?"

Arthur stops admiring himself in favour of turning to her. He's smiling, thinly, one brow raised in a perfect imitation of bewilderment.

"I live _here_, currently. Do you suspect I'm braving the perils of sunlight while you're out to look for other homes?"

"You had to live _somewhere_ before you met me. Why couldn't you go back there?"

"Because I flit between abandoned places, mostly – squatter's abodes." His smile shifts into something bitter. "When one never ages, one has to move about constantly to avoid suspicion... or find a very good skincare cream to advocate."

"But you told me you had enemies." The word is so very playground-cliché that Emma struggles to utter it sincerely. "Certain individuals, I think you said, but they can't be very pleasant or you wouldn't be hiding."

"If you can accept the existence of vampires, why does the notion of vampire _hunters_ sound absurd?"

"I could find one," she says, quickly. "If they're real, I could tell one to come find you here during the day."

"Yes," Arthur says, straightening up. He eyes her directly as he continues, "But you're not going to."

His enthusiasm for eye contact does not disguise the wavering inflection of his voice, aquiver with uncertainty. And this man scared her in the living room and tried to eat her when they met, but Emma still feels oddly _offended_ that he'd ever think such a thing of her.

"Of course I wouldn't! Because I need you to help fool my colleagues with me, yes, but... I don't want to be part of the reason you die."

Arthur's bitter expression resurfaces. "I'm already dead."

"_Half_-dead."

He might be cold, but it felt... nice, ish, when he held her. That's as far as she'll take that line of thought, mind – she knows all about his kind, because she's read enough trashy romance literature to predict where such pondering leads.

She slips her hand into her skirt pocket to produce her phone; Toni wanted her to ring him, after all. Besides, there's no better antidote to mild vampire seduction than calling a sensual Spaniard, and when she looks up she finds Arthur watching her again.

"I'm going to tell them if we're available," she says, "so if you'll do this for me – and I'll owe you, I will, I will be _so_ grateful – will you let me know now?"

Arthur pauses. "You never told me their names."

"Why is that important?" she asks, taken aback. "They're – Lovino, and Antonio, and—"

"And you work with them?"

"Yes."

Another pause. Arthur's eyes dart about in all sorts of directions while he examines her, but she forces herself to remain calm: she doesn't know what he's looking for, what's caught his attention so suddenly.

"This... isn't the man I'm _smelling_ all the time, is it?"

So much for keeping a lid on things.

Emma opens her mouth, then shuts it again. If she tells him now, he might judge her, produce the mocking reaction she'd been imagining before – but if she waits to thrust the surprise upon him she'll only receive that in front of _Lovino_, too. He'll no doubt recognise Antonio's own scent once they're all in the same room together.

She chooses to simply nod her head, meek over explanatory. Pathetic, dishonest, harlot – any number of things could come from Arthur's mouth, now the cat's out of the bag and it's nothing like Jan. She can't bring herself to regard the Englishman for fear of the look on his face, how amused he must be that she's going through all this trouble to appear unaffected at how the man she adores prefers other men.

Arthur does none of that. Instead, he kisses her.

Emma hardly has time to react before his hands are on her hips again, tugging her briskly towards him as his arms follow suit – until they're sliding around her waist. He tugs her body towards his own, pinning her flush against him, while his lips are sloppy and clumsy in the most appealing away. It's a rough, frenzied attempt at a kiss, but it's so expertly devoid of clashing teeth that it would be simple to forget what he _is_... even as his fingers slide along her spine instead, rubbing over every notch until they scale her neck, tug at her hair.

His hands, _hands_; they're all over her. She doesn't know what he's doing to her but she can _feel_ it, scorching patches across her body where he's touched her. It takes all her self-awareness to keep from dropping her phone, so she doesn't manage to prevent a breathless little moan from escaping into his greedy mouth, his lips parting oh-so invitingly only when he's about to pull away.

"Now," he murmurs, or perhaps it's more of a growl. "Now, you smell like _me_."

Oh. Oh, dear.

Emma isn't sure why that makes her weak at the knees but it _does_ – perhaps because it's exactly what she _wants_.

She wants to forget about her ridiculous crush, her tiring loneliness, life's monotony broken only by the arrival of a man who could kill her. She's so desperate for it she'll let that same cold, soulless creature make it happen, and this is hardly the sort of seduction her books told her about. It's never this _messy_...

...aside from all the blood.

Still, she apparently has a choice to make. While Arthur's eyes roam in predatory paths across her, Emma is still clutching her mobile in one hand, digital phonebook open on Antonio, as of yet undialled. While dressed in normal clothes, it's easy to pretend Arthur is a normal boy, that this is the same sort of wonderful mistake she used to perform during her university days with _genuine_ broke students.

She glances at Toni's number, then glances up at Arthur – and as she steps towards him again, she throws the phone off somewhere towards her pillows.

* * *

**-o-**


End file.
